Through New Eyes
by RussianDestruction
Summary: Hermione arrives at Hogwarts after her college graduation to take on the vacant post of Transfiguration Mistress, but is faced with an enigma once she sees Snape. Just who took the greasy, dour Potions Master and replaced him with this angstily handsome doppelganger, Sexerus?
1. Who is Sexerus?

**A/N: Hello, lovely readers! 'Tis I, with yet another little piece about our favorite couple. This WAS going to be just a two- or threeshot, but I've since decided I'm taking it the full on multichaptered route. I have wayyy too many ideas for it.  
**

**I do not own Harry Potter, or any of JKR's characters. I do own young Mr. Petersen, whose future role in the story I am now deciding.  
**

**How is this tale going to differ from other SS/HG fics I have written? Well, in this one, Hermione is not a student. I usually prefer writing the student/teacher relationship, but I must say, it is refreshing not to have to put up warning after warning after warning! Also, this is going to be a funny fic throughout. This means that even once this delicious couple ends up in the sack, against the wall, or wherever I put them, concupiscence will take a back seat to humor. Why? Because I like to experiment with my writing and stretch my boundaries.**

**I do hope you enjoy, and please don't forget to hit that itty bitty review button! ;)**

Hermione Granger, newly minted graduate of the Salem Institute of Higher Learning, and brand new Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was nonplussed.

She stared. Blinked repeatedly. Stared again. She thought briefly that perhaps her recent Lasik eye surgery was tampering with her vision again, but she dismissed the possibility. True, she was still suffering from some of the typical after-effects of the Muggle eye surgery – her parents had insisted she rely on what they called "the tried and true way", rather than some frightening sounding magical alternative – but they were limited to halos around lights at night, and an occasional fleeting blurriness. Lasik, which she had gotten to correct the havoc her constant reading and studying had begun to wreak upon her eyes post-Hogwarts, had never caused something like _an altered appearance of reality._

Because since when had Severus Snape, reinstated Bat of the Dungeons after the Battle of Hogwarts five years prior, looked like _this? _Granted, the last time she had seen him had been several weeks after he had been found in a coma in the Shrieking Shack, and as such, he had hardly been at his best, but this..._this _was just...

Minerva McGonagall, current Headmistress and Hermione's beloved mentor, cleared her throat.

"Are you quite all right, dear?" She was looking at Hermione strangely. "Before you arrived here for our meeting, I was just telling Severus that I wanted to speak with both of you before the start of term. Seeing as your respective areas of expertise are largely interdependent, I feel that the syllabi should be edited to reflect that. Do you agree?"

Hermione gulped for air like a fish. The content of the so far one-sided conversation was evading her, and she decided to ignore Minerva for the moment, in favor of focusing further on Sexerus...er, _Sev_erus Snape.

Sexerus Snape was more appropriate, although she supposed that was a somewhat odd name. No odder than Severus, however.

She was aware, even in her own head, that she was rambling, and therefore wisely kept her mouth shut when the recipient of her disbelieving stare proceeded to snap at her.

"Sometime this year would be nice, Miss Granger." The sneer that curled his lip somehow failed to make him look pinched and nasty as it had during her school years, and instead added nobility to the aristocratic planes of his face.

He was sitting indolently in a hard backed chair in front of the Headmistress' desk, and his lazy posture showcased his toned long limbs to best advantage. The ankle of one lanky leg was propped up on the opposite knee, in typical male fashion – _oh, Merlin, I never realized Snape was a _man! screamed her brain – and his white cotton shirt, currently unbuttoned to the third button, strained across his broad chest while simultaneously revealing a small thatch of curling dark hair.

It wasn't just all that, though. If _that_ were the extent of the difference, he could still have been the Snape she knew, merely sitting in good lighting, his face less lined from stress, and showing a surprisingly fit physique beneath his usual dramatic teaching robes. Her shock at his appearance was more due to the fact that his actual features seemed different. His teeth were straight, for one thing. She had noticed that when he sneered. They were no longer the yellow, jagged pegs which would have inspired horror in both her parents, and caused them to hustle him into the nearest dentist's chair post-haste.

Minerva, confused as she was at this inexplicable reaction to seeing same-old nothing-special Snape, nonetheless seemed to realize that Hermione was too stunned to do much of anything at the moment, and delicately conjured a chair, the plump seat of which was upholstered wonderfully in violet satin. This confection she slid forward delicately, indicating to Hermione that she should sit, and Hermione gratefully sank into the chair.

"Your Transfiguration abilities are still second to none, Headmistress," Hermione croaked. Yes, her voice sounded somewhat strange, but she still congratulated herself on formulating and delivering a coherent sentence.

"Yes, well, I may have had to give up the Transfiguration position due to being Headmistress, but I am not quite in my dotage yet," said the older woman briskly, favoring Hermione with a fond smile which quickly gave way to a questioning look.

"Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey, dear? You were very pale a moment ago, but now your entire face is flushed. Perhaps you are running a fever? I heard recently that several Hogsmeade residents have come down with the Wizarding flu. I do hope you haven't caught it."

Minerva decided she was simply intimidated by being in Severus' presence. The young girl hadn't seen him in a long time, after all, and perhaps she had forgotten how crotchety he could be. Maybe she had even expected him to behave somewhat differently, now that she was on staff. (Here, Minerva chortled to herself. If she thought that, she was in for a rude surprise. Severus may have been a war hero who was now lauded by the entire Wizarding world, as well he should be, but he still had the personality of an over-used Brillo sponge, and the charitable qualities of a horse that had just been kicked repeatedly in the balls.)

Severus was huffing impatiently in a way that indicated _he _didn't much care if Hermione had caught the Wizarding flu, dragon mumps, or even house-elf rubella.

"I'm a busy man, Minerva," he said grouchily, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

Minerva tore her concerned gaze from Hermione long enough to look at him shrewdly.

"And just what do you have going on, Severus? It _is _still the summer holiday, after all." She looked sternly down on him from her standing position behind her desk.

"There are potions...in my office... must work on my syllabus..." He waved his hands about vaguely, as though to illustrate the wide variety of very important projects to which he must immediately return. He trailed off somewhat lamely at the expression on her face.

"Denied," Minerva said tartly. "Your projects can wait, and you know it. You will stay."

The 42 year old Potions Master slumped back in his chair like a chastened little boy, glaring up at Minerva balefully.

Despite her current state of confusion, this little exchange was too much for Hermione, and a choked sound emanated from her throat.

As both of them turned to look at her, she just managed to turn the giggle into a cough, which fooled Minerva, but not Severus. _Of course._

"Amused, Miss Granger?" He wrinkled his nose at her as though she were something interesting he had found on the sole of his boot after a nice long trek through a swamp.

"_Professor _Granger," she managed, wondering why he had never tied his hair back like that before. It had grown even longer, and it now hung almost to his shoulder blades. He had secured it into a ponytail at the base of his neck, and only a few strands had escaped around his forehead and temples. She would never have thought it, but it suited him magnificently. It set off his nose.

Did his _nose _look different? She decided she was not imagining it–it definitely seemed less bulbous. Had he gotten a _nose job?_ What had happened to the man she knew? Who was this person with Brad Pitt's _Interview with a Vampire _hair, Gerard Butler's body in...well, _any _of his movies–she hoped Snape's abs continued the trend currently being set by his muscular arms and shoulders–and the overall inexplicable allure of Tim Roth? (Hermione had an addiction to Muggle movies, which was not surprising, seeing as she _was_ Muggle-born, and she sometimes reverted to the habit she had developed in her early teens of using movie characters and actors as a basis of comparison for people she observed in real life. She had also never quite understood Tim Roth's appeal. She had always been somewhat ashamed of herself for thinking him sexy, and now Tim Roth's profile was sitting right in front of her. No wonder she was alarmed.)

The sneer that once again graced Snape's face as she inadvertently studied him drew her attention downward, to his mouth. She remembered his lips as being somewhat thin–not that she had ever noticed them much, other than as portals for the venomous words he spewed in every Potions class. Now they were..._sensuous. _Keanu Reeves-esque.

_Professor Snape has a sexy mouth._

She choked again, but this time it wasn't on laughter. It was on shock. She hadn't even known one _could _choke on shock. Laughter, yes, but not a single literary character about whom she had ever read had choked on _shock. _She supposed she was the first.

"Minerva, it appears that _Professor _Granger" - he emphasized the title in deliberate mockery of her - "is incapable of contributing to this oh-so-important conversation" - here he sneered at Minerva - "at the present time." He held his arms out to his sides as if to beseech the Headmistress to conclude the meeting.

By this time, Minerva had concluded that Hermione _must_ be coming down with a particularly virulent case of the flu. That flush was a telltale sign of a high fever, and the last thing she needed was one of her teachers becoming incapacitated right before the start of term.

"Hermione, I do believe you should go to the hospital wing and be examined," she said kindly, ignoring the muffled sounds of annoyance coming from Severus.

"I-I'm fine," she stammered, pulling herself together with a mighty effort. Whatever was going on–whatever _madness _this was–she'd address it with the Headmistress later. Merlin knew she wasn't going to ask _Snape _the name of his plastic surgeon, personal trainer, tailor, hairdresser, dentist, and dermatologist.

A new thought entered her mind: maybe the Headmistress was _deliberately ignoring her confusion_ at Severus' new appearance in order to goad her into asking about it. That didn't really seem like her, but why else would she be acting as though she had no idea why Hermione was so confused? _Any _ex-student of Snape's would be stunned at this extreme makeover. (Hermione made a mental note to get her hands on a before shot, take an after shot, and turn it into the show.) Besides, what did she really know about Minerva's true character behind closed doors? Who knew what kind of mischievous nature she might have been hiding behind her professional demeanor all this time? After all, Snape had just morphed into Aragorn (thankfully, sans facial hair). Clearly, she had a lot to learn about her old teachers.

"Let's continue the meeting," she said. As long as she didn't look over at Sexerus, she would be able to concentrate.

This proved to be a good strategy, and for the next hour and a half, the three Hogwarts Professors bent over notes, textbook lists, and previous years' syllabi in an effort to design the strongest Transfiguration and Potions curriculum the school had ever seen. Hermione was able to draw on her passion for her subject to block out her current bewildered state of mind, and Severus' near-civility in the interests of academic cooperation meant that she was not forced to glare at him repeatedly, and therefore was spared the disconcerting experience of having to look at the shiny new Potions Master over and over again. She concentrated solely on the papers in front of her and on Minerva's face. Severus she addressed by pointing her ear in his general direction to indicate that she was, in fact, cordially listening for his responses to her questions and observations.

Towards the close of the meeting, the shuffling of papers and the muted murmur of the trio's conversation was interrupted by a staccato knock at the office door.

"Come in," Minerva said, tapping a stack of papers on her desk to even out the edges.

Hagrid's matted mass of hair peeked around the doorjamb even before Hermione could make out his face, and she smiled widely. She hadn't had the opportunity to see the half-giant much during her years at university, and was looking forward to being able to visit him regularly again.

When he saw her, his pleased expression mirrored her own.

"Hermione! Been much too long since I've seen yeh! And look at yeh now–a Hogwarts Professor. I hope yeh'll still be visitin' me? I'll be makin' summat special for yeh in the way of rock cakes, o' course." Here he looked at her hopefully.

"Of course-!" she began to echo, but was interrupted by Snape's cough.

"Hagrid, we're rather busy at the moment, if you don't mind," he said pointedly, back in full snark mode.

"_Actually_, Hagrid" - here Minerva gave Snape a remonstrative look - "we were just wrapping things up. What can I do for you?"

"Jus' comin' by with young Mr. Petersen, as per yeh're request, Headmistress." At this point, another head peered around the door. Hagrid being so tall, the blond curls of the young boy–third or fourth year, by the looks of him–only came up to the gamekeeper's belted waist.

"Yes, thank you, Hagrid," said Minerva, ever gracious. "As I said, we are just finishing up here, so if you wouldn't mind just waiting outside for a tiny moment...?"

"O' course, o' course!" And Hagrid led the student, who Hermione noticed was dressed in green-trimmed robes, back out into the hall, closing the door behind him.

As Hermione finished gathering her things in preparation to depart, the Headmistress noticed her quizzical expression.

"I don't normally approve of students coming back to the castle before the end of the summer holiday, but Mr. Petersen is a...unique case," she said.

Snape snorted. "Namby-pamby is more like it."

"Severus!" exclaimed Minerva. "A student of your own House!"

"Just because he has a _poor home life_, he's granted special treatment," said the Potions Master bitterly. "No allowances were made for _me, _and look how _I _turned out."

At this, both Minerva and Hermione turned meaningful looks upon the dark man, who simply bared his teeth at them.

_How is it that he can do that? _thought Hermione, somewhat irrelevantly. _If anyone else _bared their teeth, _they would sound and look like a crazy person, but _he _just looks like a...like a...well, like a sexy animal! _Even her more outspoken inner self blushed at the thought.

"Suffice it to say," Minerva continued, "that Mr. Petersen does have, as Severus so aptly put it, a "poor home life". The moment the boy stepped on the train to Hogwarts three years ago, a particularly observant prefect noted some angry bruising on his arms, and duly reported to me. I have made multiple attempts since then to negotiate some sort of guardianship through the Board of Governors, as well as Magical Child Protection Services, but my efforts have been unsuccessful. I am told that in order to take over the care of the boy, I would have to work with the Muggle equivalent of this organization, and that promises to be, at best, a sticky business. I have therefore made a concerted effort to do the little that I can–to check in with Mr. Petersen every time he returns to school, and determine the state of his health."

Severus mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "Or just tell him to suck it up", but both women ignored him.

"That's an awful situation, Headmistress," Hermione said, shaking her head. She was fortunate in that her parents loved her and had always taken the best care of her.

"Please call me Minerva," said she. "You are, after all, a colleague now."

Hermione smiled and nodded her thanks. Gathering up her briefcase, she began making her way past Severus to the door, as it was nearing dinnertime, when a thought suddenly struck her, and she stopped in her tracks.

If this was the start of young Mr. Petersen's fourth year at Hogwarts, that meant that Severus was his Potions teacher. Which meant that Severus' appearance should have shocked the boy as much as it had shocked her. Which meant that Mr. Petersen's complete lack of reaction–well, other than the apprehension which she remembered seeing on the faces of her classmates whenever faced with the Potions Master–was odd, to say the least.

"Any day you wish to remove your shadow from my person, Miss Granger," sneered that familiar deep voice. The _only _thing about him that was familiar, now.

"_Professor _Granger," Hermione and Minerva corrected automatically, in chorus. Hermione, stunned anew at this complication to the conundrum, did not realize she was standing right in front of the Potions Master, literally inches from his black clothed knees.

Even his smell was different. Had he _always _smelled pleasantly of spices and herbs? Well, he must have smelled of herbs, at the least, being a Potions teacher, but Hermione couldn't recall ever thinking that he smelled _pleasant. _Had she ever bothered to come up with a comparison for Snape's personal smell prior to this, she would have concluded that he smelled like the tears of adolescents whose hopes and aspirations had been crushed by his cutting words like blooming flowers crushed by a dementor.

Apparently, Snape regarded Hermione's continued insistence that he refer to her by her proper title as beneath his notice, for he simply ignored her and continued on his mini tirade.

"When I told Minerva, upon discovery of your acceptance of the Transfiguration position, that I did not look forward to having your shadow cross my path again, I meant it figuratively. Had I known it would come true _literally_, I would have escaped into the bowels of the Forbidden Forest months ago."

Minerva was _trying _to look stern, and failing miserably. In fact, she looked more amused than anything else. Hermione, however, was beginning to realize that whatever this was...however she was seeing the Potions Master...only _she _could see him that way. Which meant...there was no point asking Minerva about it later, because she simply wouldn't know.

Turning to look down at the dark man, who was sitting with his arms folded grumpily, she made the mistake of meeting his gaze for the first time since she had entered Minerva's office that afternoon. Instantly, she felt a bit of a lurching sensation, almost as though she had just jumped into a pool as deep as his dark eyes appeared.

After she emerged from the depths of his stare, she even felt somewhat lightheaded, as though she had just held her breath underwater for a long time. Dimly aware that she should continue on her way out before Minerva checked her in at St. Mungo's to be evaluated for mental illness, she manufactured an _I'm still in charge of my mental faculties and am in no way thrown for a loop by Snape _expression, and put it on. Snape, on the other hand, suddenly looked as though something very interesting had just been made clear to him.

He smirked up at her, eyes glittering malevolently.

**A/N: What do you guys think is going on? :) **

**Ah yes, the italics. I deliberately overused them in this. I am aware that overuse of them is not desirable, but for some reason, it's how my humor was begging to be expressed here. Blame the Muse? **


	2. The Sexiest Thing

**A/N:Here is another chappie for all you wonderful folks! It's a bit shorter than the first one, but it's either update more often, with shorter chapters, or make y'all wait forever and a day between updates. Being the magnanimous person that I am, well, here you are.**

**I still don't own Harry Potter, you dunderheaded fools. :)**

**Thank you to all those who have left reviews, or even who have just followed and favorited the story (and me). It means a whole heck of a lot to me. More than I can tell you. For cereals.**

**A giant cold has just taken me by the ears and banged my head repeatedly against a nearby box of Kleenex, so I'm going to take my miserable sick butt off to bed. That didn't make sense...but I'm ill, so you're not allowed to judge me.**

_"You could really stand to do something about that hair, you know."_

Snape merely stared defiantly at the full-length mirror he had conjured, and then began to pace.

After the Granger chit's exit, the Headmistress had given him a stern talking to, during which he had zoned out a lot. Because he had long since perfected mental categorization, he only heard bits and pieces, like "the need to be welcoming to our newest staff member", and, "the importance of amicability amongst the teachers". His brain instantly recognized this as drivel, and relegated it accordingly to a dusty corner of his mind. Even "just because her NEWT scores were higher than _yours_", something which would normally have him grinding his teeth in suppressed rage, (Snape didn't take to teasing well), only drew a grunt from him. He was too busy plotting.

Upon leaving Minerva's office, he had gone straight to his chambers in the dungeon, needing to ascertain for himself just _what_ was going on.

He knew one thing for certain: Hermione Granger was feeling fluttery. About him. _Birds and bees _fluttery.

Which meant that he now held power over her. Which meant that perhaps, just perhaps, her tenure here at Hogwarts wouldn't be the aggravating experience he'd been expecting it to be. After all, she'd been virtually tongue-tied during much of that poor excuse for a meeting, and a tongue-tied, stammering Hermione was a great improvement over know-it-all, blabbering Hermione, at least in Snape's opinion.

The same Slytherin smirk he had worn earlier crossed his face again.

After gaining the privacy of his chambers, and upon further contemplation of this, he had settled in his favorite armchair with a glass of firewhisky, and indulged in a rather lengthy snickering session. The Princess of Gryffindor was attracted to him.

This begged the question, _why?_

Or rather, _what?_

He was Severus Snape. Greasy Dungeon Bat Extraordinaire. It was all very odd. It was so odd that, had he not known Granger to be incapable of any sort of duplicity, he might have suspected her of deliberately planting those thoughts about him in her head just to get his goat. (Baaaaa.)

He had only managed to maintain an inroad into her mind for several seconds at the very most, although it had felt like longer. During that time, he was able to sense her general state of being–fluttery–and see vague flashes of himself. Except, in Granger's mind, he didn't look anything like himself.

Oh, there were some similarities: his height, his hair color, his eye color, and the overall structure of his face, but that was about it.

It was a bizarre sensation, seeing an impersonator of yourself in someone else's mind. He was sure that it had to have been one of the strangest experiences of his life. And he had been around the block. Twice. Maybe even three or four times.

All the pacing was making him dizzy. Besides, one could only traverse the same swath of cold stone floor for so long before one died of boredom, and so he forced himself to look back at the mirror.

He shuddered at the sight. It was quite as awful as it usually was.

A sour looking man stared back at him. His black eyes, perpetually bright with alertness, _would _have been his best feature, were it not for the deep, shadowy sockets surrounding them.

His skin, less lined now than during the war, was nonetheless still rather dry and ashen, and certainly in need of some sun. (Well, his lab _was _in the dungeons, after all. As were all his classes. If you asked Snape, it was a wonder he wasn't an _albino_.)

It all went downhill after the eyes.

The nose was so big you could serve drinks on it. In the past, men of Severus' acquaintance had tried to include him in their circle via tasteless jokes about "men with big noses", but the humor had been lost on him. He had nothing to prove anyway.

The mouth would have been acceptable, were it not for the pinched manner in which his upper lip clung to his lower. Experimentally, he tried parting them. This merely gave him the appearance of an enraged groper fish, and he closed his mouth quickly.

Body-wise, he was passable. He didn't sit on a couch all day and surf though stations on the Wizarding Wireless, but while he lacked the dreaded paunch that tended to attack men of middle age, he was hardly..._ripped_ like the man in Granger's mind. He felt a momentary, senseless spike of irritation towards the cretin.

Which was remarkably silly, seeing as that _cretin _was himself. _Somehow..._

He hoped.

His head hurt.

_"Are you going to make me reflect you much longer?"_

Apparently, the mirror was nearing the end of its tolerance.

"It _is _your job, you know," he said bitterly, eying the reflective device with no small amount of pique.

_"I'm quite sure I've already gone above and beyond the call of duty, honey," _said the mirror, somewhat rudely.

"Wait." He wasn't done looking yet.

His _hair. _What had his doppelganger done with his hair? Oh yes. Tied it back. Severus snorted.

Then he looked at his hair more closely. Perhaps that _would _be an improvement. Slowly, he gathered the lank, oily strands into a tail at the base of his neck, and held them there with his hand, the better to view the effect.

The mirror shattered.

Well. Perhaps it wasn't a good look after all.

Shards of glass were sodding _everywhere._

The disgruntled Potions Master picked his way carefully out of the sea of sharp bits and pieces in order to reach his wand, which he had placed on the small side table next to his armchair. Grumbling about stupid magical objects charmed to insult and degrade, he took care of the mess, banishing the fragments to the rubbish bin next to his bed.

The room then darkened around him as he sat in his armchair, fingertips steepled like Austin Powers, deep in thought.

Was the man in Granger's mind _someone else? _Maybe it wasn't him at all.

He discarded this possibility, however, after just a few moments of thought. There had simply been far too many similarities between them. He looked exactly like Snape imagined _he'd _look after intensive sessions with a plastic surgeon, personal trainer, tailor, hairdresser, dentist, and dermatologist.

No, it was definitely him.

Possible explanations for Granger's inexplicable reaction to him marched through his brain, each more unlikely than the last, but much as Snape wished to get to the bottom of all _that_, he was more focused on working out a strategy for utilizing the new state of affairs to his best advantage.

Snape had never been in a situation where he could exert _this _kind of influence, but now that the chit apparently thought him the sexiest thing since sliced bread...well, the world was his oyster!

Never mind that she was obviously insane.

His hunger for dinner effectively addressed by the disconcerting juxtaposition of the words "bread" and "oyster", his head drooped off to the right, and he nodded off, drooling just a bit onto his shoulder.

**:) That was some fun with the mirror, huh? Snape seemed to take it in stride, though. Perhaps he's used to it...**


	3. Brief Random Interlude

**A/N: Um, yeah. I won't apologize for this chapter. I'm not entirely sure who wrote it, because it definitely wasn't me. **

**No.**

***blinks slowly***

**Anyway, I do hope you enjoy it! This story is all about humor, and while I'm not exactly sure ****_where _****this idea came from, I hope it makes you laugh! **

**It would have been up yesterday, but I was blocked from uploading for a few days (again) because the same person who reported A Good Spy reported it again. I have no idea...honestly...people sometimes. Anyways. :P **

**All your base are belong to J. K. Rowling. If all base are belonged to me, I would be wealthier. **

_Dkajfsdhkeei! Dkjdfsijleai! Hkfdhsaienfe!_

Hermione, who had been blissfully, peacefully asleep, thrashed awake instantly at the awful racket. Her elbow collided painfully with the bedside table to the right of the canopied, four-poster monstrosity that was her bed, and she let out a muffled _oomph–_something between a grunt and a squeal.

Looking around woozily, she blinked sleep from her eyes. She was no morning person as it was, and this horrendous shrieking was most definitely _not _helping matters. The room was still dark, which meant that whatever had woken her up had a death wish.

Her legs were never at their best this early. She slid out of bed somewhat shakily, cringing as her bare feet met the cold stone of the floor, and proceeded to half-walk, half-stagger around the perimeter of the room, searching for the source of the sound. It was so loud at this point that her ears were beginning to ring.

_Qekjhfeiwaehfei! Ieheihfeihd!_

"Okay! Okay!" she mumbled irrationally, her frustration mounting. Merlin's polka-dotted underpants, it was loud. If she couldn't silence whatever-it-was, she'd have half the staff outside her door within minutes, gibbering angrily at her for waking them up so early–on a Saturday morning, no less.

Not that it's being Saturday was really that big of a deal, seeing as the school term didn't start for another fortnight.

She spent a brief moment imagining the Dungeon Master – er, Potions Master – wearing nothing but sleeping pants and an irritated snarl.

She shivered.

_Heydhidnfejei!_

"Accio shrieking object!"

Knowing the identity of the desired item was a prerequisite for the success of any summoning spell. Hermione was well aware of this, and had been since her first year, but she figured it was worth a shot anyway.

Just as she was seriously considering fleeing the room and blaming the ruckus on Peeves, she saw it.

"Got you, you blasted little bugger," she said angrily, readying herself to pounce on the thing she had just noticed moving about under the tastelessly ornate chaise lounge near the window.

Unfortunately, it was fast and she was not. Her reflexes, never top-of-the-line, were exceptionally sluggish at this hour, and she found herself face-down on the dusty floor, the fingertips of both outstretched hands coming together mere inches from the now furiously scuttling item.

It was a magical alarm clock, apparently charmed like nobody's business. The previous occupant of the room must have been a ridiculously heavy sleeper. Hermione couldn't imagine _anyone _being able to sleep through that kind of pandemonium.

It also appeared to be fairly intelligent, since it was doing its best to escape her all-too-apparent rage. Shrieking madly, it retreated further into the shadows beneath the lounge.

Ears ringing in earnest now, Hermione picked herself off the floor, coughing as dust rose around her in a small cloud. Trying to keep the contact between her feet and the floor to a minimum, she hopped over to the bed to retrieve her wand.

Now she knew what it was, she could, of course, _Accio _it, but this whole thing was personal now, and she wanted to blast the wretched thing into powdered pieces.

The clock sensed what was coming, and shrieked, if possible, even more loudly than before.

_Why is it that things you're trying to attack _always know _when you're coming after them? _she thought briefly.

After all, Hermione doubted very much that the clock was actually _sentient. _So how did it _know?_

She had no desire to reduce the lounge to smithereens. That would just make _more _of a mess for her to clean up, and the room was in a sad enough state already, so she decided to try and trick the little devil-clock.

Forcing herself to stand quietly, she waited. Barely breathing...waiting...waiting...

And there it was. The metallic edges of the clock gave it away, glinting as it looked cautiously out from the supposed safety of one of the chaise legs, and Hermione attacked.

One carefully aimed _Reducto! _later – she'd modified the spell while at university to allow for minimal collateral damage – and the alarm clock was a smoking pile of screws and tarnished brass.

Hermione subsided weakly onto the floor, her head throbbing. The shrill shrieking echoed in her brain, despite the fact that its source had been destroyed, and she pressed her fingers to her temples. She needed to talk to the Headmistress. Who knew what other surprises this godawful room had in store for her?

It wasn't that she had been expecting the Plaza. She had lived in this castle for years, after all, and therefore knew very well that certain aspects of Hogwarts (the draftiness, the coldness, the dankness) didn't make for the most comfortable living environment, but this was _ridiculous_.

When she had been shown to her chamber last night after her meeting with Minerva and the Potions Master, the dust had literally risen from the floor to form a smoky haze around her. The air had the acrid, stale quality typical of a long-sealed room, and her lungs had begun to burn almost instantaneously, both from that and from the lack of oxygen.

Of course, she had gone about the room and taken care of the worst of it using magic, but that was really a poor substitute for a good deep clean. Using magic to suck up dirt was like using a Muggle duster; sometimes it just spread things around.

Hermione felt a bit offended that nothing had been done to ready the small suite for her arrival, but then immediately felt guilty for feeling that way. She was no visiting dignitary, after all. Just a new teacher, and the second youngest teacher in the history of Hogwarts at that.

She sighed. Somehow, she still wouldn't have thought she'd be put in a room like this. With the amount of house-elves Hogwarts used, (she couldn't say _employed_, since they _still _weren't being paid), she would never have thought it possible that such a dirty room existed anywhere in the castle.

Sunshine began to filter in weakly through the grime-encrusted glass of the two tiny windows, and Hermione realized she had been sitting on the floor woolgathering like an idiot for far too long. With a groan, she stood up, gingerly rubbing the points of her elbows which had been bruised during her earlier bout of impromptu belly-surfing. She'd have to get some salve for it, or she'd be quite sore.

It being Saturday, she didn't really have any hard and fast plans. She had a few things she needed to get done–unpacking, for one, since she'd opted to use the few hours Minerva had given her between greeting her at the front gate and requesting her presence for the curriculum meeting yesterday to nap. Traveling always took a lot out of her.

And then there was the room. She felt a little overwhelmed at the thought of it. There was no way she'd be able to live in it, even once it was cleaned, without making some serious changes. The previous occupant's tastes appeared to have leant towards the opulent, but the overall effect somehow managed to be tacky rather than resplendent.

Yet another thing on her growing to-do list. Hermione sighed again.

She was fairly certain she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep even if she tried, so she padded over to the little tiled bathroom.

She showered as quickly as she could manage, because she wasn't entirely sure she liked the look of the cracks that ran all along the outer edges of the tub. A strange, slick looking blackness was oozing out of the fissures, like mold with an evil soul.

Not five minutes later, she hopped back out onto the relative safety of the somewhat cleaner looking tiled floor. She hadn't waited for the water to get hot, so she was shivering as she wrapped her tangled hair in a threadbare towel. The towel, like the washcloth and the bath rug, was a particularly wretched shade of green that did nothing for her state of mind.

Slipping on shapeless, nondescript blue robes she liked to think of as wizarding-style loungewear, (the wizarding world, sadly, had yet to catch onto yoga pants), she shoved her feet into matching ballet flats before heading out the door.

She had just made it round the bend into the hallway when...s_mack. _Her progress was impeded by something.

Something tall.

Something..._naked?_

It was definitely a naked chest.

Abs. Like Brad Pitt in _Troy. _Well, not _quite _that beefy, but still...exceptional.

Pecs. Well-defined. Dusted with a smattering of hair.

Shoulders. Broad. Strong. Also like Brad Pitt in _Troy. _

Oh, there was a face, too.

Sneering mouth.

Aquiline nose.

Two glittering eyes which were currently looking down at her with something that, on a good day, could probably be called disdain, and on a bad day, could very likely be dubbed rampant dislike.

It was looking like today was a bad day.

Or a good day, depending on one's outlook.

He was wearing nothing but sleeping pants and an irritated snarl.

**A/N: To be continued...**

**************I really love hearing back from you! Thank you to all those who have reviewed, followed, and favorited both this story and me. It means so much to me!** We're at 40 reviews! The 50th reviewer will get a 250 word oneshot written just for them! It can be anything you want!...within reason. I call final say on what "within reason" means. ;) 

******I'm writing this as I go along, guys. **Now, I'm asking you to send me your little plot bunnies-why do you think Hermione has been but into such a crap room? What is Severus doing wandering the hallways on Saturday morning in his pajamas?

**Sentence fragments and continued inexcusable abuse of italics, parentheses, AND ellipses are intentional...**


	4. Things that go Bump! in the hallway

**A/N: A continued heartfelt thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited this story, as well as favorited/followed me.**

**You know the drill: I am poor, and my initials are E.M.C., not J.K.R. #Sad face.**

**Big congratulations and a shout-out to my fiftieth reviewer, JustCaz. JustCaz will be receiving a separate 250 word oneshot dedicated to her! It will be up within the week, and I'll also post a link to it in the A/N when I get to publishing chapter 5 of this fic.**

**I'm offering the same prize to my 100****th**** reviewer, so let's keep those reviews coming, guys and gals!**

**I hope you're still enjoying this crazy ride! xoxoxo**

After the charming back-and-forth with the mirror, Severus did not sleep well at all. He woke rather early, and was instantly aware of two things: one, sleeping in an armchair was for the young and flexible, not the old and decrepit; and two, there was a horrendous shrieking disrupting the otherwise peaceful atmosphere of his quarters. It was muffled, but it was still very much there, and he nearly gibbered with rage.

Anyone else might have thought that it wasn't a big deal, seeing as the school term didn't start for another fortnight, but Snape spent all year putting up with ridiculous students who were constantly getting into scrapes and forcing him out of his warm bed, (or armchair, as the case may be), and he didn't intend to put up with it on _any _Saturday morning, damn it.

He sniffed. What was that disgusting..._smell?_ Oh, yes. He had yet to discover the source of the odd odor lingering in his armchair, but he suspected it had something to do with the fact that this particular piece of furniture was over 500 years old. It had belonged to his distant ancestress, Lucrezia Borgia. It was being held together by magic and luck at this point, but Snape liked its shape too much to give it up. It cradled his bum nicely.

Right now, though, he shot out of it like sparks out of a malfunctioning wand.

He ripped at his clothes. He was itching feverishly. Damned chair. And why had he let himself sleep in his clothes all night? Why did he even wear that frock coat, anyway? It regularly gave him a full body rash.

Even as he stripped down to his sleeping pants (an interesting plaid affair) with a sigh of relief, he shrugged. Because he'd only ever found one tailor who could get the coat to fall quite right around his bum, that was why. If Severus Snape could be said to have any point of vanity, it would be his arse.

The fact that the tailor used wool of exceptionally poor quality was unfortunate, but it wasn't sufficient for Snape to take his custom elsewhere. Even Severus Snape had his points of pride, although, being him, they were considerably fewer than those of most men.

As he scratched his rash, the shrieking grew in intensity until he began to grow light-headed.

No, this could not continue. It was unacceptable. With a snarl, he rushed out the door, oblivious to his current state of dishabille.

He knew this area of the castle as well as he knew every area of the castle, and thus knew for a fact that it housed a grand total of one suite besides his own–an abandoned, grimy, nasty affair, last inhabited during the Victorian era. No one ever stayed there now, but if he was right about the direction of the sound, (and Snape was nearly always right about such things), the shrieking was most definitely emanating from somewhere directly above his head.

He took the stairs at the end of the corridor three at a time, scratching his chest as he went.

The staircase shifted. Swearing like a fourth year late to Potions class, he found an alternate path to his destination. The shrieking stopped abruptly, only to be followed by a contained sort of explosion, which was followed in turn by silence. Snape loped with new urgency along a musty hall that ran roughly parallel to his target area. If someone had just blown themselves up, he was going to be very, very put-out.

Anne Boleyn's portrait averted its eyes as he streaked past.

It took him several more minutes to arrive at the corridor he sought, and he gasped for breath. He needed to start running more. He had the lung capacity of a shrimp these days.

A sharp _smack _served to remove the remaining scant air in his chest, and he gulped for oxygen like a prisoner recovering from waterboarding torture. Through streaming eyes, he took in the sight of Miss Granger, draped in what appeared to be a blue tent, and managed an irritated snarl through sheer force of habit.

"Mizgwanger, wasmeaningthis?"

She blinked, clearly startled by his sudden appearance. She looked a bit pink. Minerva must have been right about the flu.

He stepped back sharply. The _last_ thing he needed was to be getting sick.

"What-what was that, Professor?" she asked faintly.

He obliged her, and repeated his question. "Miss Granger, what is the meaning of this?" He had gotten some of his breath back now.

She just gaped up at him silently, causing him to grow more irritated by the second.

"What are you doing in this wretched corridor? What was that damned racket? What was that _explosion? _And why are you currently puce?" He ticked the questions off on his left hand.

They seemed like perfectly reasonable questions to Snape, but the slack-jawed chit in front of him didn't seem to think so.

He huffed, throwing his hands up in the air. "Miss Granger, I sprinted all the way up here on Saturday morning after being rudely awakened by a ruckus in _this _vicinity. If you know what has transpired, it would be in your best interests to tell me this instant."

"It was...the clock. There was a clock, and it screamed, and–"

"I beg your pardon?" He followed the path of focus her slightly glazed eyes had taken, and found that they were resting squarely on his chest. Clearly, she was ill. He had just called her "Miss Granger" multiple times, and she had yet to have an aneurysm.

"My apologies, Miss Granger," he stated formally, clearing his throat several times.

"I-don't mind," she said, and instantly looked horrified.

Snape made a mental note to clean out his ears thoroughly as soon as he got back to his room, because there was no way he'd just heard what he thought he'd heard.

"Nonsense, Miss Granger, you are all but magenta, and I–"

A loud crack interrupted him, and there at his feet stood a house-elf who looked entirely too chipper for the time of day.

"Master Snape called?" it shrilled happily.

It took a lot to render Snape speechless, but the sudden appearance of the small, bat-like creature did just that.

"How are you today?" Hermione asked the elf, ever polite.

Looking from the elf to Hermione, and from Hermione to the elf, Snape flipped through his mental Rolodex to "Hermione Granger" and "house-elf", found a file marked SPEW, and sneered slightly.

The elf responded to the nicety, asking how "Missy Hermione" was liking the room.

At that, Miss Granger seemed to suffer a coughing fit. When she recovered, she only managed to say, "Adequate, Magenta. Thank you."

Snape felt as though his brain was turning to mush. It was far too early for this, and the core question of this whole encounter had not yet been asked.

"Your name is _Magenta?"_

"Indeed!" chirped the elf. "What would Missy Hermione and Master Snape be requiring?" She grinned rather widely, and Snape became even more painfully obvious that he was shirtless, and that Miss Granger's hair resembled nothing more than the fur of an electrocuted Pomeranian.

"It's–nothing like that, Magenta!" Hermione protested.

Snape, on the other hand, didn't stoop to explain himself to a house-elf, and merely glowered at the little creature.

"If you come when called, why do you have a name as common as a _color?"_

"Oh, tisn't common around here, sir! Most students aren't knowing cinnamons for purple!"

That seemed plausible enough. Most of his students didn't know synonyms for _dunderhead._

A muffled sound came from the direction of Hermione's face, and he turned his attention once more to her. The elf's butchering of the word seemed to have her in a fit of giggles, and she had pressed a palm to her mouth in an effort to stem them.

After she had recovered, she smiled. "We're quite all right, Magenta. Thank you for coming so promptly."

With a smile and a formal little bow, the elf disappeared with another gunshot-like crack that did nothing to assuage Snape's rapidly growing headache.

It occurred to Snape to conduct a more in-depth inquiry as to exactly _what _Miss Granger was doing in that wretched room, but as he was trying to formulate his questions, an awkward silence began to form.

Snape _hated _awkward silences. They took him back instantly to his time at school, when older students of all houses, including his own, would stop talking when he approached, only to continue as soon as he had passed.

Before it could grow too pressing, Snape broke it by turning away. His hands went automatically to his sides to grip folds of black material in preparation for a billowing exit, but he was left short-handed (literally), and had to resort to clenching and unclenching his hands spasmodically several times, trying to make it look intentional.

There was another muffled sound from Miss Granger, and he stalked off with every shred of dignity he could muster.

"Professor Snape?"

"Yes?" he griped, continuing his measured escape.

"Thank you for coming to check on me, even though you didn't know it _was _me."

"Hmph."

**A/N: There will be some Minerva in the next chapter, because of course, Hermione will be discussing this problematic room with her! Snape-well, he'll be off doing his own thing. Magenta may or may not pop up in chapter 5, but there will be more of her as well. **

**Don't forget to review! It feeds the silly!Muse. Her favorite snacks are chocolate chip cookies and brownies. And wine.**


	5. Magenta is Evil

**A/N: Bless me readers, for I have sinned. It has been nine days since my last update. Yeah, well, if you were knee deep in grad class with a Professor with a personality like a spiked pickle, you would be behind on your writing, too.**

**All your base are belong to JKR, as per the usual. Somebody set up us the bomb!**

Hermione wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. Yes, she was upset about being housed in what she had dubbed the Chamber of Dust, but actually going through with addressing the issue with her mentor was harder than she had expected.

And she hadn't even started talking yet.

The Headmistress was so..._smiley. _So welcoming and friendly. Hermione had been admitted to her office right away, despite the earliness of the hour, as she had been working on some sort of paperwork. Craning her neck unobtrusively Hermione was able to pick out the last name _Petersen, _at the top of what looked like a very official document. Her natural curiosity rose up, but she pushed it firmly back down.

_Focus, Hermione. Stop feeling like you have no right to be upset about this room. Assert yourself. You are a Hogwarts Professor! _

"Professor, I'm sorry to bother you, but, erm, my room...there have been some–problems. That is to say, it's quite...unique."

She mentally smacked herself in the forehead.

Minerva cocked her head, looking at the newest member of her staff.

"My dear, my name is Minerva. You are, as always, free to use it." She paused, taking in Hermione's pained demeanor with some confusion. "Well, I did have my doubts about placing you in the East Turret. I worried that the décor was rather too Spartan for a bright young person, but I did hope that the lovely view would make up for it."

"The...view?" asked Hermione weakly. The Headmistress' idea of a good view differed from hers, as all she could see from her window was a few inches of daylight. The room was on the upper level of the _dungeons_, after all. (Yes, Hogwarts had multiple dungeon levels. It was all in _Hogwarts: A History_.)

Also, the Chamber of Dust was Spartan the way Versailles was dull. Hermione was no up-and-coming interior designer, but she was pretty sure that the furniture in there dated back to the Renaissance, if not before. The furniture in her room, not Versailles. Although technically Versailles was a Renaissance structure too.

"Yes, the view." Minerva's brow furrowed. "It's one of the only teaching suites with a view of the lake. The sunrises are quite beautiful, with the sunlight reflecting off the water."

She was sure that Hermione's gaping signified the progression of the Wizarding Flu. At least she wasn't pink like she had been yesterday. As long as she wasn't running a fever, she would probably recover somewhat quickly. Still, best to be sure...

"Magenta!" she called.

_Crack. _It was a testament to Hermione's morning thus far that she didn't even jump.

"What can Magenta be getting the Headmistress?" asked Magenta. "The kitchen has just been receiving a new imported type of–"

Hermione looked at Magenta. Magenta looked at Hermione.

"–a new type of system where people that is calling certain elfs isn't guaranteed to get certain elfs!" finished Magenta incongruously, at which point she vanished with a vociferous _crack _that put all others before it to shame.

Minerva sat back heavily in her chair with a rustle of fabric. "Well, I _never!" _she exclaimed. "Hermione, have you ever seen a house-elf behave like that? Hermione?"

She had to call Hermione's name several more times, because Hermione was looking as though something had suddenly been made clear to her.

"That little _demon!" _she hissed suddenly, banging her fist on the desk and startling Minerva so much that she knocked over the bottle of ink beside her paperwork. Without hardly sparing it a glance, Hermione cleared it up with a wave of her hand.

"Thank you, dear," said Minerva, feeling that her nerves were really too shot for things like fist-banging at this hour of the morning. "Now, do you mind telling me what this is all about?"

"Magenta is evil!" When Minerva chortled despite herself, Hermione set her chin even more. "It's because of her that I've had the morning I've had."

"I wasn't aware that you knew Magenta, Hermione. Then again, perhaps _not _being aware of that was silly of me, given your adolescent activities with the dignified organization of SPEW."

Hermione stared at her employer very hard. Minerva simply smiled at her, just like Professor Dumbledore used to do. It was impossible to tell if she was being made fun of. Although Hermione had, in fact, long since come to terms with the fact that house-elves didn't want to be helped, she chose to believe that Minerva was sincere.

"I met her last night," she said. "She showed me to the Chamber of Dust."

"The chamber of...what?" asked Minerva. A look of partial understanding slowly crossed her face. "Severus didn't take you to your room, did he?"

"No, he didn't. Why I'm even surprised at that is beyond me. He hates me, after all. He deserted me in the corridor after we both left your office. I wasn't about to go after him, and I didn't want to bother you, especially because it takes _forever _to get up that revolving staircase." She gestured vaguely behind her towards the offending item.

Minerva blinked.

"Magenta just happened to be passing by as Severus left. She introduced herself, told me she knew where I had been assigned, and offered to take me there."

Now the Headmistress just looked nonplussed. She got up briefly to close the shutters against the particularly bright sunshine of the early morning, and then sat back down.

"Where exactly did Magenta put you?"

"Thanks to the events of this morning, I have the answer to that!" said Hermione. "Right above Professor Snape's – Severus' – quarters."

She could feel herself becoming pink. She could feel it, and the more she acknowledged it to herself, the pinker she became. The harder she struggled not to acknowledge it, the worse it got. Minerva was noticing; she just knew it.

Minerva _was _noticing, but as she simply deemed it the progression of the flu, she did nothing, other than inch her chair subtly away from Hermione. She couldn't be getting sick. Her immune system wasn't what it once was. She'd _make _Hermione go and see Poppy.

She was also dying with curiosity as to what exactly had happened to Hermione this morning, and was promptly gratified as her young employee let loose.

Hermione had just gotten to the part about the shrieking clock, when Minerva began to cough. Pulling a handkerchief from her front pocket, (the benefit of being old was that one carried things like handkerchiefs), Minerva stifled her peals of laughter. Tears leaked out the corners of her eyes, but other than that, she was fairly sure she had managed to conceal her amusement. She could always blame the tears on allergies.

"...and in short, I'm terrified I'll unearth something in that room that will actually hurt me." Hermione finished her tale of woe, and sat back in her chair.

Minerva deemed it safe to emerge from her hanky, and duly did so.

"My dear, we will get you moved straight away." Minerva congratulated herself that you could hardly hear the quaver in her voice. "After which, we will get to the bottom of this."

Hermione thanked her, and stood up in preparation to depart.

"Not so fast, dearie. You are going to see Poppy right away." She anticipated Hermione's protests, and waved her hand. "I won't hear it. Even if you aren't ill, it is best to be sure. Poppy just returned from her holiday the day before yesterday, so she will be able to see you. Off to the hospital wing with you."

Feeling oddly as though she had regressed back to her school days, Hermione did as she was told.

The faint exclamation "Get back here right now, or there will be clothes!" floated down to Hermione as she made her dizzying way down that blasted staircase.

It was better to cooperate, anyway. What if the Headmistress ever discovered the real reason for her flush?

Hermione shuddered at the thought, and made haste to the hospital wing.

**A/N: My life has been a bit...bleh recently. Nothing too awful, just stress, and business, and general AHHHHHHH! What I'm getting at is that a review would make–not just my day–but my whole LIFE at the moment. Enough guilt for you? Good. :D**


	6. Narrative Causality

**A/N: Here is another chapter, because I actually had 45 minutes to spare today! That being said, note that I ****_only _****had 45 minutes, so please don't flay me alive if...if you don't like it. But you better like it! Waaaaa! I may not be able to update after this for at least a week, so I wanted to get this straight out to you all. 3**

**I appreciate all you wonderful reviewers so much! Hundredth reviewer gets a 250 word oneshot.**

**JKR is the Messiah.**

Hermione huffed irritatedly as she left the hospital wing. Poppy Pomfrey had been altogether too chipper for the time of day, in her opinion. It wasn't even nine o'clock yet! The mediwitch had also been rather head-noddy and lip-smirky when interrogating Hermione about her current state of pink-ness, which did nothing for Hermione's state of mind.

All she would say was that the Headmistress had wanted her to be checked out, that she was fine, and that she had only come here under duress from her employer. This statement was greeted with more head-nodding and lip-smirking, and Hermione felt uncomfortably certain that Poppy, somehow, _knew_ something_._

Then again, the nurse did deal with young women all year, some of them suffering from acute cases of love-sickness (it was an actual disease), and hence probably thought she was recognizing some of the signs.

Not that Hermione was _love-sick. _That made her sound like a pathetic adult who had yet to grow out of her teenage years. No. She was...disconcerted. Intrigued. Yes. Intrigued was a good word. Appreciative. That was even better. She felt..._appreciative _of the Potions Master.

Never mind that appreciation had never made her _pink _before. Maybe she _was_ a bit under the weather. Her throat did feel a bit dry, and her eyes were watery, although both of those could be attributed to the fact that she had gotten up so early.

Hermione was so far from a morning person that her very body rebelled anytime before ten. She had gotten through the mornings during her school years by...well, she wasn't exactly sure how she had gotten through the mornings during her school years, now that she came to think of it.

_And now you're a tenured Professor, with a schedule beginning before eight every day. You're a masochist._

Ah, well. At least she'd soon be moving out of this room. She stepped into the Chamber of Dust, leaving the door ajar in an effort to encourage some sort of fresh air to circulate. Given that she was in the dungeons (second level, but dungeons no less) that was probably a wasted effort, but she did it anyway. The two tiny windows almost resembled those in a Muggle basement, in that they were almost eye-level with the ground. This meant that some sunlight was able to filter in, but the panes themselves could not be opened.

She began to pack up her things, so she'd be ready when she got word to move. It didn't take all that long, as she had only just arrived the day before, and hadn't yet had time to settle in. As she was lobbing several sets of her preferred lounge robes into her trunk, and squealing as she actually managed to make the shot, a small off-white owl with brown markings swooped into the chamber, alighting on one of the bedposts.

Hermione laughed when she saw the darker markings around its eyes, which followed an almost circular pattern. Minerva had said she'd send an owl when the East Turret room was ready, and with those markings, Hermione was sure this owl was hers. The bird looked for all the world as though it were wearing horn-rimmed spectacles.

As Hermione read the small missive, however, her face fell.

Dear,

The house-elves I just sent to ready the East Turret chamber for you have reported that they found the room in a shambles. Such was the level of destruction that I have called in two Aurors to ascertain whether or not dark forces have been at work. One can never be too cautious! I will continue to keep you abreast of the situation.

~Minerva

Well. She plopped back down on the bed, hacking as a giant cloud of dust rose up and threatened to choke her with its gritty embrace.

This meant one thing: she'd have to break out _Magical Messes and their Mitigation. _The housekeeping book had come highly recommended by Molly Weasley, who was prone to making sly insinuations about Hermione's lack of domesticity. Hermione usually just ignored the jibes. Up until now, she had had no desire to read the book, in great part because the title didn't make sense. You didn't mitigate _messes_. You mitigated _conflicts. _She made a _harrumphing _sound at the lengths to which people would go to alliterate their book titles.

Still. Perhaps now was the time to break it out. Digging in the depths of her infinitely expandable trunk, she rooted around in an effort to locate the tome.

_It was right _here _just a second ago! _she grouched to herself. _Why can't I find it? _

This happened to Hermione all the time, mainly with her purse. Even though she wasn't a girly girl to the extent Ginny was, she still had enough stuff in her purse at any given time that finding a damn pen was a task akin to locating a ribbon buried in a skip. (She had triumphantly emerged from her purse with a tampon in hand, rather than the desired pen, far too many times.)

She had just plunged face first into her trunk, fully immersing her torso, when a smooth _Ahem _made her halt mid-wiggle.

Horrified, she became instantly aware that her legs were sticking straight up into the air, and that her sudden scrambling to right herself was making her look like an upturned beetle.

_Why why why? _was her last coherent thought, before she hit her head on something sharp, and promptly passed out.

* * *

Snape had come to Miss Granger's suite because he felt bad, dammit. He knew it was his fault that she had been placed in this awful room, and he had heard about the issue with the East Turret (house-elves gossiped more than Aurors during peacetime). Just because he felt the sudden inclination to offer his assistance cleaning up, however, did _not _mean that he was _nice. _He shuddered. What a horrible word. _Nice. _It conjured up all sorts of terrible things.

Unicorns. Dewy-eyed puppies. Gurgling babies. Sunlight.

He had knocked several times to no avail, so he peered through the open door. He was prepared for many things: killer dust balls, more evil clocks, perhaps a nasty-tempered bat or two, but the last thing he had expected to see was two legs waving about in the air directly in his line of sight.

Between the legs was a pair of frightfully baggy knickers in a sad shade of lilac.

He shook his head to see if the odd vision went away, but it did not.

_"__Ahem." _

There was a squawk, and the upended legs began to kick violently. This was followed by a dull _thunking _sound. Snape stared as the legs went limp, not sure whether to laugh or rush to help. It quickly became clear, however, that rushing to help was in order.

He pulled Hermione from the depths of the trunk like a cork from a bottle. Despite her unconscious state, her right hand was clenched victoriously around a grotty-looking old book. Snape snorted when he saw the title, but took it and placed it on the bedside table. Seating himself on the floor and conjuring up some salts, he held them under her nose.

He had read about this in various harlequins – Snape had always been very much a lover of literotica – and had always wanted to do it, just to see if it actually worked.

It did. She came to, blinking up at him owlishly. Several seconds passed, during which she attempted to process the events of the last half-minute. Doing so rather more quickly than he had anticipated, she squawked again.

He promptly dropped her as though she were a hot potato, letting her fall unceremoniously the few inches from his lap to the ground.

She turned fuchsia, and looked away. Her gaze fell on the bottle of salts, and she whipped her head back around to look at him.

"I fainted?"

He answered her with a derisive snort_. _

"I've always wanted to faint, so I could be given smelling salts. I read in harle–in books that they worked, and I was always curious to see for myself."

Snape blinked.

"Congratulations, Miss Granger. You are the first witch, _ever, _to lose a fight with a book."

"What are you–" She put a hand up to her head, and winced as she felt the bruise. The edge of the book had actually scraped off enough skin that her fingers met with some blood.

"Oh," she said again, inanely. _"Professor _Granger," she added as an afterthought.

He snorted again. (He really needed to stop doing that. It was wreaking hell on his adenoids.)

"Your attempt at dignity and self-assertion is falling short, somehow." He pretended to stroke his chin thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. It must be the book-induced blood smearing your face. Or could it be the granny knickers?"

His eyes flicked meaningfully over her body.

At this, she gasped, yanked her robes back down over her legs, and made as though to stand. Instantly, she felt dizzy.

"Sit, Miss Granger. Just sit."

To his surprise, she did as she was told.

"As soon as you feel recovered enough, I shall assist you in setting this..._mausoleum..._to rights. It is to be hoped that the East Turret can be readied for you without further delay, but in the meantime..." He trailed off, noting the glazed look in her eyes.

"...thank you," she was saying. And then... "...why are you being so nice to me?"

He snorted. _Dammit. _"I'm not being _nice_. But to answer your question, narrative causality."

"Oh. Well, if there is anything I can do for you in return, I would be more than happy..."

A quick peek into her mind again showed him that odd, _enhanced_ version of himself. Ignoring the recurring question of _what the fuck_, and suppressing the urge to spend a moment admiring the physical attributes of this imposter, he simply used the information to his advantage.

_"__Anything, _Miss Granger? One does not simply offer _anything _to a Slytherin."

Her mouth gaped open in understanding of her error, and he chuckled.

"Yes. You have made a mistake of monumental proportions, Miss Granger."

**A/N: Dun dun dun dun...**

**Leave me a review and tell me what you think is going to happen next!**


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